Joseph's Coat
by alyxpoe
Summary: Hello, my name is Joseph L. Conrad, member of the Homeless Network. Johnlock. Original male character's POV.


Hello. You won't have heard of me, but my name is Joseph L. Conrad. I'm a man, I mean, bloke, down on my luck. I'm mostly able-bodied, but sometimes it can be hard to get by. I've never been an addict nor did I lose everything in any type of 'crash.' I chose this life: it was the best out of some very bad choices, one of which would not have ended with me talking to you. This isn't about that, though, this is a story about a coat.

Before the coat, I could usually be found hunkered down behind one of the empty stores off the Tube line. I gotta' tell you, though, finding that coat changed my life. It's even possible that it may have _saved_ it.

You see, I was walking down the road—I'm sorry: _pavement_, next to this café, Speedy's, where a bloke down on his luck can sometimes get a hot cuppa if he's polite and goes around the back. I've helped out the owner with some small jobs a time or two, so I guess I'm one of the polite ones. As I thanked the gentleman running the place for the day, I noticed that there was this older lady standing out in front wearing a thick, pink, quilted robe—I mean dressing gown-buttoned up to her neck. She was speaking with a man in a fancy trench, I mean, a _posh_ man wearing a brown coat and smoking a cigarette.

I'm sorry again, but I ain't calling the cig by its other name. I hate that word, 'specially 'cause I heard someone call Sh….a certain person _that_, and it was mean. You must think I'm stupid, but maybe once you hear my story you'll understand how someone deserves respect for the things they do, even if they don't seem to fit into your view of the way life should be.

I'm not saying I have much of a view right now, though, cause I been out on the streets for quite some time and I'm here to tell you, if somebody's got _love_, well, I ain't about to laugh at them because the soul they love comes in a package decorated with the same dangly bits they got. Dammit! Sorry again, what I mean is: I would never laugh at someone who loves someone who is the same _gender_ as them, because in the end, it don't matter.

Right?

Anyway, the man in the suit is holding the cigarette funny, like he's not supposed to be smokin' it. His eyes are sorta' shifty, too, like he is looking for his mum to catch him doing it. He also has a big umbrella, damn, I mean brolly, in his other hand and he's twirling the thing around on its pointy end. I think, and I can remember it clear like, I think that thing looks big enough to have some sort of real sharp blade hidden it.

Don't know why I thought that, now that I'm thinking about it again, but it's what I thought and Sh…I mean, some people say that we—all of us, even if we are down on our luck for whatever reason—well, even people like us see things about other people because we _observe_. So, anyway, let me leave off with the observing for a minute, because what I wanted to talk about was the coat.

But I need to get back to that older lady first. You know, the one talking to the posh man with the brolly.

Well, her face is a bit pinched like she's smelt something downright awful. I can't say what it is about her look that makes me stop next to her, but she turns away from the posh bloke and looks at me with a smile. Her face changes, then, into something I haven't seen in many years. My momma…

That's not important now, either. I'll say she reminded me of someone important and let it go at that, 'cause there's some things I just can't tell anyone yet. I've been told by…certain people…that that's okay, too, that I'll work through it. I can handle that.

Anyway, this lady, she smiles at me and pats my arm, and I'm so shocked I almost spilt my tea. I'm not used to people touching me, especially in such a kind way. Besides pretending I don't exist, even people who stand my simply being there seem like they don't like to touch my skin. Maybe because it is darker than theirs? Maybe they think it will feel different? I don't know.

"Did Henry send you this way?" she asks me with a squeeze to my forearm. Once again, most people don't touch me, instead they back away from me like I've got some sort of terrible disease and then try to pretend they've suddenly gone blind. I'm here to tell you, I don't have any disease, I just have this bad scar that runs down the side of my face. That happened a long time ago, and maybe it will lead you to understand why my first thought about Posh Brolly Man was a sharp blade…

But I'm wandering off again, aren't I? Sh…I mean, _certain people_ say I should work on that. I have been, I swear to you. Anyway, I don't answer the lovely lady but she doesn't seem to be offended. I'm not used to talkin' to people much, mostly because my accent is still clearly American, and even among us people down on our luck, well, I tend to stick out like a dirty thumb. Well, a dirtier one, at any rate, I've been told.

"It's okay, young man, we have all kinds 'round here," the nice woman says to me while posh-with-brolly dude actually _looks_ at me. I don't know what he sees, but he sort of squints at me a little bit and I almost ask him if he's lost his glasses, but you never piss off people in suits. That was one of the first rules I learned when I decided being down-on-my-luck in the streets was better than being down-on-my-luck and stuck at home with my stepfather and his big fists.

Anyway, the gentleman doesn't say anything to me but it was like his eyes are looking right into my brain. Like he has x-ray vision, you know, like in the comic books? I do not move. After a few minutes, he nods at me then finishes his cancer stick and smashes it under his heel. He pulls gloves out of his pocket—they match his overcoat—and puts them on. I keep looking at his hands and thinking that I couldn't remember the last time I had a pair of gloves. Granted, the nights were getting colder at that point, but I seem to do okay after I lost mine on the only night I ever spent at the shelter. Apparently, someone there was more down on their luck than I was at the time and maybe needed 'em in a worse way.

"I'll take your leave, Mrs. Hudson, please let me know if there's anything else I can do," Mr. Posh says to the lady. "Or, rather, what they will allow me to do."

"Oh no, Mr. Holmes, you've been more than kind. I'm sure that the small roses will be beautiful and more than enough." The older lady, Mrs. Hudson, tells the man. She pats me on the arm again, pulls her dressing gown tight around herself and walks over to a black door on my right side. She pulls it open and makes an irritated little sound then closes it before I can hear anything else.

In the meantime, I'm sorta' stuck between a rock and a hard place. Mr. Holmes hasn't moved a muscle and neither have I. He is staring at me with these light blue eyes so I decide to stare back. My eyes are dark brown and I know I've never been able to just stare at someone and make them stand still.

"Joseph," and yeah, he calls me by my name. I don't know how he knows it and now I'm too damned scared to ask. I remember that every bad thing I'd ever done up to this point runs through my head. He smiles at me, then, a strange little twist of his lips then pulls his gloves off and holds them out to me. I try to put my hands up to tell him I've got no money but all I succeed in doing is dumping my cuppa. Damn, I think as the warm stuff splashes on the bottom of my best pair of worn-out jeans.

Mr. Holmes shakes his head and holds the gloves out. I can't move anywhere and the pavement is getting crowded now with people who want to eat breakfast or go to work or whatever and I'm sure I'm an eyesore who is going to be shooed away at any moment. So I take the gloves but all I'm thinking about now is that cuppa and how long it's going to be before I can ask for another. I stand there, staring at the tea making a puddle at my feet and holding these gloves. There's one hole in the bottom of my shoe and the tea is soaking through it.

"Joseph, you can put them on," Mr. Holmes tells me. I look up and feel like it's best if I just do what he says. I slip them on and oh my God. I can feel the tips of my fingers again. It's so nice I want to cry. Mostly I want to cry over my cuppa, but beggars (Ha!) can't be choosers, I guess.

So I stand there and I'm feeling kind of lost when Mr. Holmes presses a fiver in my hand and says, "I apologize for the tea. Have one on me."

And this time before I can say anything, he turns and walks away, brolly tapping the sidewalk with every third step. I'm stunned, again, so I stare at the money in my hand for a few moments. Of course, it's just a piece of paper and isn't going to do any tricks. I walked into Speedy's with my head held high, ordered a new cuppa and a sandwich then gave the two pounds in change to the next person down on her luck that I see that day. If I'm going to get money without actually earning it, might as well pass it on.

I'll tell you that having that bit of a nosh in my belly makes me feel better and this afternoon I run into a man trying to move a bunch of bookshelves by himself. He says I look like a strong lad, so I help him and with the twenty quid I make in those two hours, I am able to have tea for several days!

What's funny about that is for some reason, I keep coming across these little odd jobs that people seem happy to have me help with. That's funny because it has never happened this way to me before; there's always been a bit more begging involved-except with the owner of Speedy's. I'm not gonna to question it—didn't then and I'm not going to do it now. Tonight, I'm still at my regular spot, the little covered nook by the empty store a few blocks away from the café where I find work sometimes, but these gloves make me feel like I can do anything.

ooo

It is about two weeks later when I find The Coat. I was out enjoying the sunshine after I helped another stranger shift a few very big loads of dirty sheets and stuff out of her van and into one of the local laundry places. She is very sweet and even lets me take a shower in the restroom in the back of the place. After that, I stay around and she shows me how to do things like fold those sheets with the elastic in the corners. I feel like an expert now.

Anyway, I'm heading over to Speedy's in order to get something to eat when I stumble over something on the sidewalk, I mean, pavement. I look down and here's this big lump of gray material. Being the curious type, I pick it up and it turns out to be this heavy coat. I'm kind of tall so I try it on, mostly because I want to see what it looks like. My gloves have little holes worn in the tips of the fingers, so I am able to feel the soft wool as I try it on. It is really, really nice and the hole with the old gentlemen of back in the day would put a flower is outlined in red thread. I shrug and head into the café after admiring the coat in the window for a moment. It has a wide collar that I can flip up over my neck; that looks a bit silly, though, so I flatten it back down.

Just as I'm biting into my sandwich, these three men go running past the big window. I'm sitting at a table there, because I like to look outside. I'm sure that's odd for someone who spends as much time out there as I do, but sometimes you can see interesting things. And these three guys are really interesting, you know, like _television_ interesting.

So these three guys are running like their heads are on fire and their asses-arses—are catching. I'm chewing a bite of ham and cheese when _these_ other two guys run by, and I'm thinking they must be chasing the first ones. There's this long-legged man with this crazy head of hair, he's wearing a purple dress shirt and black dress pants, I mean trousers. A little ways behind him is a shorter man, he's got blond hair and he's hauling ass, too, his boots are blurry to me he's moving so fast.

Then, right behind them, is a cop, I mean, copper. I tense up a little at first, but then I remember that I'm in the café legally and I'm not loitering—I'm a _paying customer_, so I keep watching. The copper is a bit older than the blond man and a whole lot older than the black haired one. He seems a bit rumpled.

I take my eyes off him for a second and look to see where the other two have run off to. Blond man is sitting on one of the first three, the guy's hands pulled behind his back and in his. The black-haired man is in the middle of punching one of the others in the face and the third one is already on the ground, and I'm sure he's already been knocked out, but I'm not about to go out there and find out. It looks like they've got it all under control, and besides, this sandwich isn't going to eat itself.

So yeah, the copper with the gray hair, well, his face is all red. He doesn't seem angry though, 'cause he just puts his hands on his hips and takes a deep breath. In fact, when I catch his expression, he looks a bit relieved, sort of like I did when I realized that I'm a paying customer. He's also smiling a little, so maybe this whole thing is funny to him.

A few seconds later, a cop car, a panda, pulls up next to all of this and the blond man and the copper hauls the three men up to their feet. A lady copper gets out of the car and helps him. I got to tell you, she's really nice to look at and not just because she's in a uniform. I'll admit that's one of my weaknesses. She's got a bit of a mean look about her, though, so I'm keepin' my butt right here in this seat. This sandwich is almost gone.

So the two coppers get the bad guys into the car. The lady cop doesn't stay and talk, just gets back in behind the wheel and waits. The older cop, the gray-haired fellow, he pats the blond man in jeans on the arm and gives him a smile. He turns to the taller man and seems like he's got something to say, but then he just laughs. Right there on the pavement with all these people going by—he has a carful of baddies and he's _laughing_ at the two men who've obviously helped him get them there.

So then the copper gets in the car and the lady drives them away. And that's when the tall man looks right at me. He's got these light-colored eyes and I know he can see me. All I can do is look back. I'm strongly reminded of Mr. Holmes that day he gave me his gloves because we were standing in almost the same exact place he's in now. The tall man, though, just looks at me a little longer and then down at the shorter fellow. He is listening to the shorter man, then answering him and then…right there! They are kissing and I can't look away.

I know I should! I know it's probably wrong to stare, but there's something amazing going on right here in front of me and I've no idea what it's called. The blond man is standing between the window and the tall man, so I can see when the taller man shoves his hands down into the shorter man's back pockets. He's got some big paws on him, too. The shorter man's jeans go down a little, but it's not like I can see skin or anything. Anyway, these two are kissing like…like…like, I don't even know. I'm still holding my sandwich, and there's still people passing by and no one, and I mean no one, is paying them any attention.

Except me. And I can't get my eyes off them.

The shorter man has his hand around the back of the taller man's neck, probably so he can reach his mouth. The tall man's eyes are closed until they break off, and then he looks at me again. After a few seconds, the two of them turn away and go through that same door that I saw the older lady go through a few weeks ago.

It is such a strange thing, but I can't stop thinking about it.

I think about it late at night when I'm hanging out in the doorway, huddled into this coat in order to keep the wind off my chest. Last winter I ended up really, really sick and I'm not going through that again: all those sad looks from the people in the hospital—I can take care of myself. So yeah, I'm here and it is dark and there's something about seeing those two guys kissing each other that makes me feel really warm in my chest, you know?

ooo

There is snow on the ground when I wake up. There's a dusting of it on my shoulders, too, and I hurry up and get it off because I feel somewhat protective of this coat. It's a weird thing, but there it is. I stand and dust myself off. I'm going to have to go to the shelter tonight, if it is going to keep being this cold. As much as I hate it, I have no desire to die this way, either. So, even if I lose my gloves, at least I'll be warm.

I've got a little bit left from my last job, so I stop at a little shop on the corner. I don't have anything lined up for today, so I thought I'd just wander a bit and see where it takes me. As I'm handing over the money, I hear a voice behind me say,

"Sherlock, I think I've found your coat."

I thank the man for the cuppa and turn around slowly, so I don't spill it. A little ways from me stands the blond man, the one who tackled the bad guy to the ground in front of Speedy's. I know it's wrong, but all I can think of is 'please don't take this coat.'

"Hmmm," a deep voice says from my left, "no, that's not it." The tall man appears from the crowd, lays his hand on the shorter man's shoulder and sort of steers him in the opposite direction. He's looking at me, though, and something deep in my _bones_ tells me that I am wearing his coat. Granted, he's got one very similar to this one on right now, but it's black, and this one is grey. It also doesn't seem to be as well-made, but I don't know, and as I watch them weave through the crowd, I know that I've got to do the right thing, no matter the cost to myself. I've been working, maybe I can find someone who'd pay me in an decent coat—not like this one, I have no doubt—but at least something warm.

ooo

It takes me most of the day to work my way around to Speedy's. The sun is going down when I finally gather up the courage to lift the knocker on that shiny, black door. The older woman, Mrs. Hudson, I remember, opens it with a smile at me.

"Well, hullo. Are you looking for Billy? He's upstairs with John and Sherlock. Go right on up," she says as she steps away from the door with a nod up the staircase.

I nod back, still ridiculously feeling as if I cannot talk to her. For God's sakes, this woman has been nice to me at least twice. I grab my left hand with my right and squeeze. That helps.

"Thank you," I tell her. She beams and pats my arm. I go up the stairs until I find myself in front of a door that is open enough that I'm looking into what must be the living room, I mean sitting room; there's a long, black couch, two chairs, a fire place that is lit, and three men. It is the tall man and his shorter companion as well as a man who appears to be younger than me. I don't know any of the other down-on-our-luck people, but he's certainly one of us.

Everyone in the room goes silent when I step in, even though I can't believe I've got enough courage to do it.

"Ah," says the tall man, nodding at the blond man who is sitting in one of the chairs.

"Well, hullo," he says to me, standing and offering his hand. For some reason, I shake it but I don't take my gloves off. He shakes back, his grip strong and sure. "Tea? Coffee? I think we've got some hot chocolate around here, if you'd like that."

I just stare at him. The younger man, the one I'm now assuming is Billy, is beside me in a moment. I turn to him.

"It's okay, they're okay. You came here, so you understand that, right?" Billy's eyes are a very clear blue. His hair is dirty blond, but not actually dirty and he's looking at me as if he knows me. "Your name is Joseph, right?"

He keeps talking and somewhere in all of that, he tells the blond man that I'd like a hot chocolate. I'm not inclined to disagree, though I'm feeling out of sorts here. This is the most amount of people I've been around at the same time in a very long time. Even when I go to Speedy's, there's usually only a few people in there and they aren't all looking at me. Most of them ignore me completely; I prefer it that way.

But this…this is different. The tall man is now sitting on the couch and somehow he's folded himself up so that his legs are crossed. He seems relaxed, especially since I'm sitting right here in his coat. Surely he wants it back? Maybe he'll let me keep it on for just a little while longer, right now it feels light and wonderful draped over my shoulders, like it's protecting me.

It's pretty quiet right now. I'm standing in front of one of the chairs and Billy is in the one next to it. I'm feeling really silly because of the standing, but I'm still really unsure about all of this. I look over at the door and consider just leaving and never coming back.

"The door's open, but at least have something hot before you go back out," the blond man says in a voice that reminds me of different days as he sets a large silver tray on the coffee table—I have no idea what else people call it. There is a teapot, two steaming mugs of hot chocolate and a bunch of cookies—I mean biscuits. Suddenly it occurs to me that it's been hours since I've eaten anything.

"Go on, help yourself," the tall man tells me as he leans forward to accept a cup of tea. His eyes flicker from the top of the blue mug to me as he leans back against the couch. "Billy, do the honors."

Next to me, Billy is sipping at his hot chocolate. "Sure, Shezza," he says.

The blond man frowns at Billy. Billy grins back and sets his cup down. "I'm Billy Wiggins, but I think you already got that. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson already thought you were looking for me."

I nod and shove my hands down into the pockets of the big coat. It is starting to feel like it weighs a million pounds, and I don't mean money. It's also kinda warm under here.

Billy is pointing at the tall man, "This is Sherlock Holmes, and his partner, Doctor Watson."

Forget warm, it's boiling under this thing.

The shorter man gives me a little wave with his tea mug. "John, please." I nod again. I seem to be doing that a lot.

The tall man, Sherlock, pulls his legs back up under himself and flicks a cookie, I mean biscuit, between his fingers. The sweet thing goes airborne and moves enough to catch it his mouth. Billy laughs and John shakes his head. They all seem to get along fine. I settle down into the chair but I'm still a bit worried about grabbing that mug for some reason. What if they're going to drug me and take the coat? After all, I've already seen what they are capable of.

That deep burr cuts through my thoughts again. "We aren't going to drug you, Mr. Conrad." Sherlock informs me, gesturing at the tray.

"Why would you think that?" Billy asks me. He seems confused.

I can't answer him. Really, I can't. Maybe someday in the future I'll be able to talk about it, after all I've been on the streets a very, very long time, but I can't talk about it now. I rest my hands on the arms of the chair. Billy stops watching me as he and Sherlock pick up on whatever they were talking about when I came in. I take my gloves off and shove them between my leg and the chair. I reach down for the mug but John is already handing it to me.

"Thanks," I manage to get out. He nods and as I drink it, the three men talk. I sit and listen. Well, not really. I don't pay any attention to the words they say, but I like the way they say them. There's something comforting in the sounds and before long, I'm asleep.

"Mr. Conrad, when was the last time you slept in a bed?" I open my eyes to find Sherlock kneeling in front of me, fingers splayed against the arms of the chair, not touching me. I could easily get away if I needed to. He's looking at me with those eyes again. I wonder if John ever thinks he looks like an angel.

I open my mouth and no sound comes out but a squeak. I hate it.

"Billy," Sherlock says, standing up. "Take him with you."

"Mr. Conrad, would you mind to go with Billy tonight?"

I must have made another sound or something, because Sherlock stepped back and shook his head. "No, he doesn't stay at the shelter. He's got his own flat."

His own flat? How is that possible?

"Yes, thanks to Mister Holmes. It isn't much, but it's mine and I have an extra bed, unless…"

"Yes!" I shout then cover my mouth with my hands.

Sherlock smiles at me as he lowers himself back to the sofa beside John. "Would you be interested in helping me, part time?"

"Me?" I ask. Apparently the idea of real bed rather than a cot—not the kind a baby sleeps in, but the army kind—makes my voice work.

"Yes." Sherlock says, "I have an occasional need for extra eyes and ears about the city. In return, Doctor Watson can help with any ailments or complaints you might have, Billy can provide a roof over your head. I will stay in touch and you will be compensated for your time."

I wonder about my side jobs for a moment. Sherlock cocks his head to the side and looks at me before telling me, "You will have time for any other employ you desire, Mr. Conrad."

"Thank you," I croak. "How do you know my name?" It's not what I want to say, but sometimes you just gotta roll with whatever comes out of your mouth.

"American," John states. Sherlock and I both nod. Billy chomps on another cookie.

"Your name is not unknown to me," Sherlock starts.

John stops him by holding his hand in the air. "No mysterious stuff, please. What he means is that he's heard your name through his network of people around London."

What? How does anyone know me? I can't help but wonder.

"Oh, and you met his brother," John says as he puts his empty mug on the tray.

Sherlock scowls.

"Knock it off," John laughs. Sherlock's expression changes and he smiles.

"Yes, that, too." He adds. "There's only one more piece of business then you two can be off."

Now I am worried. This man is willing to give me all of that, but why?

"I am a consulting detective," Sherlock stands up and walks over to the door. It's the first time I've noticed his bare feet. "I have need of information to solve cases. Does that satisfy your curiosity for the moment?"

I nod.

"However, I'd really appreciate my coat back."

Sherlock is so very tall and I'm still a bit taken aback by what he's offered me. I slowly shrug out of the heavy thing, thinking that being cold is a small price to pay. Maybe if I save up for a bit, leave off the tea and sandwiches and go back to scrounging…

"No, you misunderstand." Sherlock is standing beside me now, holding out something. I recognize it as the coat he was wearing the day I saw them when I was getting a cuppa from the vendor on the corner.

"I…I can't take that." Great. I'm stuttering now.

"It is a trade." Sherlock states. He seems to have made up his mind. "You have taken great care of my coat and Mycroft's gloves."

Mycroft's gloves? "Your brother?" I ask.

He and Billy nod at me at the same time.

"I think he'll do fine!" Billy says happily, clapping his hands like a kid. He gets out of the chair and pulls his own jacket off the back of it. "Come on, Joe!" He pats my back hard. I cringe, thinking of the dirt that he's just stirred up.

No one says anything. John is relaxed on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, left hand curled around another cup of tea. I make up my mind right then and there to trust this man and reach out for the other coat. Sherlock hands it over and I tug it on.

The damn thing fits like a glove. In fact, when I tuck my hands into the pockets, I find a matching pair of gloves. I start to thank him again, but all I see is Sherlock's back as he is headed towards the kitchen. John comes over and shakes my hand again, then opens the door.

"Goodnight, Billy. It was good to meet you Mr. Conrad," he says. Billy nods and starts down the stairs.

"Joseph," I mutter. My mouth suddenly feels like it's full of peanut butter.

"All right," John says, "Have a good night, Joseph. Thank you for picking up Sherlock's coat. It's one of his favorite things, next to his violin."

"And you!" Sherlock calls out.

John smiles, gives me a firm pat on the back and I realize that I am standing up straight, meeting him eye-to-eye and even looking down a bit to do it.

I follow Billy down the stairs and out the door. The snow is falling again but inside the thickly-lined leather coat that I am going to make sure I actually _earn_, I am warm. I go and get a good night's rest and the next day, Billy takes me round the other members of 'team Sherlock.' On the way back to his flat later, we stop and I purchase my very first notebook. Inside the cover, I write my name.

It makes me smile, so I say it out loud:

"Hello, my name is Joseph L. Conrad, and I am a member of the Homeless Network."

From his chair on the other side of the big kitchen table, Billy tosses a wad of paper at me and laughs. I've no doubt we are going to be good friends, and he's already helped me line up two jobs for tomorrow. I sit back in my chair, enjoying the comforting feeling of my coat draped over the back and laugh right back at him.


End file.
